


Apocalypse Now:  You're Doing It Wrong

by thefrogg



Series: Abandoned Works from LJ [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Author is so damn sorry, Gen, so much crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 06:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/707471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're just a handful of people trying to stop the end of the world.</p><p>There's something wrong with this situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse Now:  You're Doing It Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> This one never actually got posted to LJ, so, have fun.

"You can't keep doing this." Castiel watches as Dean and Sam patch up the latest round of minor and mostly irritating injuries, but offers no other commentary.

"What are we supposed to do, just stand back and let people get killed? Ignore them while we go off and hunt down Lucifer? Or, no, wait, I forgot, you're trying to find God," Dean snarled through clenched teeth. "Good luck with that, by the way."

"I didn't say that."

Sam is silent, lower lip between his teeth, eyes dark, as the needle punches through his skin. The television drones on in the background, too-familiar news reporters going on about the Apocalypse.

"You okay there, Sammy?" Dean asks, voice low; Sam shudders under his hands and glances up before hiding his face from the light.

"I--"

"Can it, Sam."

"No." The denial comes sharp, bitter cynicism on his tongue. "We're doing this wrong." He can feel Castiel's eyes on him, and the hesitation in Dean's fingers slowly loosening their grasp on his arm, his own wounds still oozing blood.

"What do you mean by that." Castiel doesn't ask.

Sam starts laughing, head tipping back, his face lit eerily by the television. "What's the one thing," he gasps out, "the one thing we can always count on never getting--"

The realization comes like a kick in the gut, Dean's eyes wide, startled, fatigue falling away in a rush of insane hope. "Castiel."

"Yes?"

"Can you answer prayers? Not like, 'God, please bring me a pony.' I mean, 'Give me a sign...'"

"I can. Why?"

Dean stared past the angel at the television. "This is the Apocalypse, and they all know it."

~~~

It starts with Castiel; a Call goes out to the other angels, any willing to follow him, to follow Dean, to help build God's army. To those who haven't deserted their post, deserted God.

Anna shows up first, and a handful of lesser angels, most younger than Castiel. Most of them are too busy elsewhere, and can only - sometimes barely - send acknowledgement that Castiel just takes note of silently.

Two days later, it's the appearance of a refugee from the '80's - according to Dean - who gives them their first real inkling of whether or not this could work.

But then, no one ever thought Azrael would choose a vessel dressed in torn jeans, faded Def Leppard concert tee and black leather jacket, his dark blond hair long and caught in feather earrings.

Castiel and Azrael all but square off, circling each other warily. It's clear that they're at best uneasy allies; they certainly aren't friends.

"You answered."

Azrael tips his head, eyes solid white in a carefully schooled mask of neutrality. "I came."

"Question is." Dean puts in, sparing Castiel the awkwardness of having to admit he's outranked - oh dear Lord is he outranked. "You here to take over, or you here to help?"

"I do not agree that what you are doing is the right thing to do."

"Then why are you here?" Castiel asks, low and dangerous.

"Because what you attempt is the only option any of us have left."

~~~

The demons are next, hearing the news in some way that never does get explained to anyone's satisfaction.

The first pair - and they always come in pairs, or just once, a triad - hesitates on the doorstep. The girl takes a deep breath, drawing back, dark dark eyes fading to normal human, and then steps gingerly over the salt lines embedded in the floor.

Sam has an arm extended before the door bangs shut behind them, power humming through his veins even without the demon blood; Dean has Ruby's knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Castiel just straightens. The others - what few are there - watch from their places around the room.

"How the hell did you get in here." The words are barked, savage, ruthless. Words of a general unafraid to kill his own troops if necessary, to cut out the gangrene.

"Because the demons we carry like this world," the girl answers calmly. "Because they understand that wreaking havok is a fast ticket back to Hell. Because they don't want to bring Hell here. And because we protect them from...that..." She points to the door, the salt, the wards on the walls and windows. "And they protect us from everything else."

"And we shouldn't kill you because..."

"Because we come bearing gifts," her companion rumbles, backpack slung onto the table, his hands digging into it and pulling out a box.

Azrael steps forward silently, popping the locks and lifting the lid. "I assume you know the significance of this." He tilts the open box so Dean and Sam can see the contents.

"That's a little useless to us without--"

"Ammunition?" Eyes gone oil-black, she laughs, a quiet little chortle that makes Dean's skin crawl. "Bullets cast with demon blood." Her own backpack is heavy enough to make the table jump when it hits the surface. "You could use it to waste us. Or you could throw us at the enemy. Your choice."

"Great. So we have humans, an archangel, a handful of regular angels, and now a pair of Tok'ra demons."

~~~

The mundanes are slower, if more numerous; that's to be expected. After all, the angels (Castiel, and Anna, and Azrael who unbends enough to help out with the prayer-answering with a growl so low Dean can only feel it) have to go looking for the right kind of people to give the right kind of signs to.

And then, possibly the most surreal meeting ever having taken place at the Pentagon, courtesy of Angel Air.

"Who are you and how'd you get past security?!" one man belts out, half out of his chair, entirely too many ribbons on his chest. There are stars on his collar.

"Forget that, call security."

"I would not do that if I were you," Castiel says quietly. Hands freeze inches away from the phone, or half in pockets.

"Allow me to introduce the four of us," Dean says with a smirk. "But before we do that..." He pauses to glance at Azrael and gets a small nod. "Christo."

One man flinches, eyes going night black; Azrael has him in a headlock before he can recover. Steam pours off him where skin touches skin as the archangel chants quietly in his ear.

"As I was saying...I'm Dean Winchester. This is my brother Sam," he says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "This is Castiel, and that, over there, is Azrael. And that *was*--" He watches black smoke rise in a pillar from the formerly possessed's mouth. "A demonic possession. And if you think that has anything to do with the Apocalypse that's been going on the last several weeks..."

Azrael carefully lowers his prisoner into his chair as shocky generals look on.

"You're right."

~~~

Shock and indecision allow Azriel time to exorcise the whole building courtesy of the PA system; between the dazed general who's lost two months' time and the cries of pain from others being freed outside the conference room, the only protest is a quietly asked, "Do you have a plan?"

Dean just nods once. "Yeah. We have a plan."

There's a lot of clearing of throats, fidgeting and discomfort, but it only takes a few moments for one man to speak up. "What do you need from us?"

Minutes later, every hacker in the Pentagon has a new target: government buildings on federal and state levels; main and regional headquarters of every intelligence branch in the United States; military bases and Navy ships around the world; radio, television and emergency broadcast systems, all the way down to large businesses and schools, police stations and hospitals. Sam hands over a jump drive with a recording of Azrael's exorcism incantation (because it's stronger than the one they use); the file's copied all over the internet, set to broadcast at random intervals.

Castiel lays hands on everyone he can get to, people flinching as he sets the same tattooed sigil Sam and Dean have worn for months into their skin; Dean points out the jpeg on Sam's drive, and gives orders to have everyone they can get it tattooed.

"And this tattoo does what?"

Dean and Sam both pull down their collars, not bothering to stop with their task of the moment. "It protects against possession, and hopefully against Disease." Sam's jaw goes tight as Dean grinds out the answer. "We've seen that before, and it's nasty, extremely infectious, and there's no cure."

"Disease? Plague? Like what, AIDS? Ebola?"

"No, it's a demonic virus. Pestilence. You know, Pestilence, War, Famine, Death? The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?"

"So this really is the Apocalypse."

"That's what we've been telling you," Sam said. "Look, we already took down War. We've got people keeping an eye out for the other three, but there's only so much the Hunters can do when it comes to protecting civilians."

"Hunters."

"Your people keep civilians safe from other people. Hunters keep everyone safe from things that go bump in the night."

"Hunters as in, people like you."

"Yes." Dean didn't look up from the computer. "People like us. And now we need your people. So I need you to keep your people from being punished for answering God's call to arms."


End file.
